


The Muskrat King

by Arch_Calzen



Series: The Muskrat King [1]
Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Canon Death, Canon-Compliant, Depression, Dreams, Drugging, Eating Disorder, Gen, Hanzo is doing his best but everything is against him, Manipulation, Nightmares, Pre-Canon, and then things get worse, art included, not a happy fic, shady elders of the Shimada clan, the dream sequence is kind of songfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-23
Updated: 2019-02-23
Packaged: 2019-11-04 09:26:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,098
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17895878
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arch_Calzen/pseuds/Arch_Calzen
Summary: “Your brother is becoming a liability,” Uncle says, hands clasped casually together. “He needs to be brought back in line; it is long overdue.”An uncomfortable feeling crawls up Hanzo’s spine as he watches Genji’s retreating back.“I will deal with it.”Uncle nods and turns away, his heavy robes brushing the floor like inevitable tide.“See that you do.”





	The Muskrat King

**__ **

**templeait.tumblr.com**

*******

**_beyond the cold waves, arrows blacken the sky_ **

**_behind the cold eyes, will you give all you have_ **

**_for their love, my silver one?_ **

 

“You should take a more active interest in the family’s business.” Hanzo stands in front of Genji’s armchair, making use of the height difference brother’s seated position provides him with.

 

Genji looks up from his handheld; the 8-bit menu music clinks obnoxiously from the speakers. “And what do you mean by that?”

 

Hanzo huffs. “For starters, actually turn up when I summon you, instead of me having to hunt you down myself.”

 

Genji’s eyes widen for a moment before he narrows them in suspicion and cocks his head. “Are you trying to pull _oyabun_ shit on me?”

 

“I am not _‘pulling’_ anything.” Hanzo’s scowl deepens. “I am the head of the family now, so if I want you to do something, it has to be done.”

 

He is momentarily thrown off-balance when the line of Genji’s mouth curves in a sneer, the mood changed in an instant.

 

“What, like what you wanted Hoshimoto to do?”

 

“What does this have to do with Hoshimoto?”

 

“You sent him to kill a child!” Genji rises from the chair, ending up almost chest-to-chest with Hanzo when he refuses to back down. “ _A child,_ Hanzo!”

 

Hanzo crosses his arms, making sure to jab Genji with an elbow as he does that. Petty, but satisfying. “I had to use any lever I could to get the Boshida family to comply.” He gives Genji a pointed onceover. “Not that you know anything about the failed deal.”

 

“But _child murder?!_ ” Genji throws his hands up.

 

“Those who stand in the way of the clan, perish,” Hanzo deflects him easily, refusing to be moved by the display of raw emotion. “That is all there is to it.”

 

Genji rubs his forehead and paces, ending up behind the armchair and leaning on its back. Putting distance between them.

 

“I can’t recognize you, brother. This is not you!”

 

“Well maybe you _would_ if you cared at least somewhat about your own family and its affairs!”

 

“This _‘family’_ is manipulating you! Can’t you see it? _Shit,_ Hanzo.” Genji runs both hands through his bright hair in helpless frustration. “Fucking shit.”

 

“Get your act together, Genji. You don’t want anyone to question your loyalty.”

 

Hanzo knows what happens to traitors.

 

“No, fuck this.” Genji strides over to the exit from the room, stopping once he’s in the hall and turning to Hanzo for a second. A beat passes as his lips part around a word, but then he shrugs it off and walks away.

 

Hanzo’s gaze falls to the forgotten handheld. For a fleeting moment he sees himself tear out the battery to make the headache-inducing music stop, but eventually decides not to lower himself to that.

 

***

 

Deep in his heart, Hanzo always knew that leading the clan would be a difficult task. Not a task – a destiny, a commitment, a lifelong watch.

 

And he always thought, that when the time came, he would be ready for it.

 

He is not sure if that is true.

 

His days are a whirlpool of holding meetings with his charges and dealing with business partners, cramming training sessions between agreeing on a contract with an arms dealer from Tokyo and dispatching an disloyal subordinate. Hanzo often skips meals, and eats little on occasions where social norms and political dances demand his presence and involvement. He feels nauseous almost every day, any strong scent threatening to make him gag.

 

Genji gives him a wide berth, slinking through hallways when he thinks Hanzo doesn’t notice, and for once he is actually grateful: the stink of alcohol, sweat, and expensive perfume, wafting after post-partying Genji like exhaust after a jet, makes his stomach roil.

 

“Will you not join us for tea?” Uncle Kitoshita squints at Hanzo over his spectacles after he concludes a meeting and most of the attendees file out of the room. “Are you not feeling well?”

 

“I am busy,” Hanzo replies, making a show of flicking through pages of text on his tablet. He feels Uncle’s speculative stare before the man rises up from his seat and leaves, too.

 

***

 

The nausea gets worse. The strain must be greater than Hanzo has anticipated.

 

He needs to work harder. He will not be perceived as anything but ready.

 

Which is how he ends up in his bed, afraid that he will throw up if he at all moves from his reclining position. Even though it’s way past the time Hanzo usually gets up at, it’s still very early, not even a hint of sunlight outside, so at least his dignity is preserved as no one is awake to witness his failure, but _ugh._

 

His stomach rolls, starving and confused, and Hanzo lays a hand on it as he takes slow shallow breaths in an attempt not to irritate it further.

 

Distracted by the ache, he doesn’t notice footsteps until they stop outside his door, the sudden silence alerting Hanzo to someone’s presence.

 

As the door opens quietly, Hanzo expects a servant and pulls himself together as he prepares to scare them off, but it’s Genji poking his blue-haired head in, a towel around his shoulders catching the stray droplets from the bangs before they can soak into his clothes.

 

“Hey.” He steps into the room, sliding the door shut behind him. “I brought you some food.”

 

This is the first time in weeks that Genji’s addressed him directly, and Hanzo shifts as Genji approaches him, steam rising from a small bowl of rice.

 

“How did you know?” He measures out the short words, careful not to trigger another wave of nausea with a random movement.

 

“I just got in,” Genji replies easily. “You would have been up by now.” He stops by the head of Hanzo’s futon to touch the light orb, its gentle orange rays slowly filling the room. “I figured you’re kinda off your feet for the moment, so here’s something light.”

 

Hanzo accepts the offering, an open gesture of support, and a tentative hope tugs at his heart.

 

“I’m still…” Genji searches for words, as if sensing Hanzo’s mood. “I’m still not on board, brother. I can’t do this.” His look turns defiant as he meets Hanzo’s eyes.

 

Hope flickers out like a distant light swallowed by a towering wave, and Hanzo glances down at the bowl.

 

“Then why bring me this?”

 

Genji scowls in what must be exasperation before it’s smoothed from his face.

 

“Because you are my brother. And I know you feel like shit right now, but you gotta eat.”

 

Obviously prepared by Genji’s untrained hand, the rice tastes atrocious, the clumps overcooked and without a hint of salt or sweetness, but his stomach doesn’t protest, so Hanzo eats it anyway.

 

Every time Hanzo feels too sick to venture out of his room, Genji, unbidden, brings him plain rice and sits with him until the bowl is at least half-empty. Genji’s cautious, stern glances make Hanzo drop the topic of clan leading for the time being, as he is too tired to fight on multiple fronts. But it’s something.

 

***

 

“Let’s run away, Hanzo. You and me. Start anew where no one knows us.”

 

Hanzo takes an extra moment to settle, even though he doesn’t need it to aim.

 

The nausea has been mercifully dormant for the past couple of months, but headaches seem to have taken its place, driving screws into Hanzo’s temples.

 

Together with the slowly but surely mounting unrest in the ranks, Hanzo is not having the greatest of times.

 

He grits his teeth at the new pulse of pain rolling through his skull. He needs to work harder. It is only an obstacle to overcome, and a smaller one at that.

 

“I have a duty before this family,” Hanzo finally says as he releases the arrow. Its head buries itself in the target with a distant _thunk_. Hanzo frowns at the lacking precision. While the bow is only his second weapon of choice, it will not do to be anything less than perfect with it.

 

Genji is leaning against an ornate support beam, sheathing and unsheathing his shuriken. Hanzo involuntarily tunes his movements to the rhythmic sound as he reaches for a new arrow and nocks it.

 

With a short exhale, Genji pushes himself off the beam and steps forward and into Hanzo’s field of vision.

 

“Am I not your family? I am your closest family, _all_ we have is each other!”

 

“This is bigger than the wishes of one person, Genji!” Hanzo relaxes the bowstring and turns his head to look at him. Anger flares, the headache stoking the flames; Genji seems to lean back from whatever he sees in Hanzo’s face. “I was conceived, born, and raised for the sole purpose of ruling this empire, and I will not throw my duty away!”

 

Agitated, Genji leans back in. “An empire of drugs, arms, and human trafficking! An empire worth _shit!”_

 

“Don’t you _dare,”_ Hanzo hisses. Genji’s startled face is suddenly right in front of him, and Hanzo glances down to realize he has an arrow gripped in his hand, tip pointing under his brother’s chin. He shakes off the confusion and tightens his hold on the wooden shaft. “Forgive me that I don’t see it your way, without the luxury of being born second.”

 

He turns away and nocks the arrow again. “Leave me. I wish to train in peace.”

 

For once, Genji complies and grants him solitude. Hanzo keeps shooting until the ache in his strained muscles distracts him from the burning in his head.

 

Hours later, he is approached by Uncle Hitoshita, as Genji prances away to partake in his nighttime activities.

 

“Your brother is becoming a liability,” the man says, hands clasped casually together. “He needs to be brought back in line; it is long overdue.”

 

An uncomfortable feeling crawls up Hanzo’s spine as he watches Genji’s retreating back.

 

“I will deal with it.”

 

Uncle Hitoshita nods and turns away, his heavy robes brushing the floor like inevitable tide.

 

“See that you do.”

 

***

 

Hanzo dreams of being a muskrat.

 

He’s seen this dream so many times, he can only watch with detached interest as it unfolds, details shimmering and changing, but the core of it staying the same.

 

In the dream, Hanzo wakes up on a biting, steely morning and crawls out of his home between the willow roots. He swims across a river punctured by silvery streaks of bleaks and sinks his claws into clay as he pushes himself up on the other side, fluffing up his white coat.

 

Hanzo swallows bitter whortleberries and smears dew on his fur as a winding path leads him up and up until he ends up on a cliff, its rough surface black with the spray of waves crashing below.

 

He sits there, watching the horizon as sunlight slowly bleeds across it.

 

Sometimes, that’s all there is to it, and Hanzo wakes up with the bone-deep tiredness of a silent, empty morning. Most of the times, however, he gets up and wanders into the thick forest, cobwebs clinging to his round ears and pine needles prickling his paws.

 

He finds someone. Their face is hidden in the shadows of their dwelling, but Hanzo feels the curling, confident power leaking from their bony fingers.

 

“There is a fish,” they say. “A fish with a human face, with fat like no other’s. With its fat comes great might, if the ruler is worthy enough to wield it.”

 

“I will catch it,” Hanzo always replies. Sometimes a pinprick of foreboding fear makes him waver, but the dark gaze from the shadows makes him press on as he tries not to squirm under the silent judgement. “I will eat it, I swear,” he says and balls his fists up until the claws bite into his palms.

 

“What will you give for it, Muskrat King?” The shadows ask. Dry, twig-like fingers run over the parchment of a volume licked by the musty air. “What will you give for the power to lead, to build, to tear down?”

 

“Anything.” Hanzo bares his fangs, matching the figure’s glare with one of his own. He is strong. He will lead, and build, and tear _apart._ There is nothing he will not sacrifice for his kingdom.

 

“Very well.” The figure’s exhale is an almost soundless movement of air, a rotten leaf settling on the forest floor.

 

“The only bait the human-faced fish will eat,” the shadows hiss, “the only desire the fish possesses,” the voice comes from seemingly everywhere, tightening like an iron hoop around Hanzo, “is to savor the exquisite treat that are the eyes of the Bird King.”

 

Every time, Hanzo’s blood runs cold at the whispered words. The shadows lap at his feet, watch him take a shaky breath.

 

“Will you bring it the Bird’s eyes, Muskrat?” The figure taunts. “Will you feed it with the eyes of your brother?”

 

Immeasurable power. Endless potential. The right to rule, given at birth and proven by force.

 

All of it, at the cost of his brother’s life.

 

“I will not harm him,” Hanzo deflates, feeling the shadows crawl gleefully up his shins.

 

The figure _tsks_ at his weakness; Hanzo straightens his spine.

 

“But you swore, Muskrat King, did you not? Will you walk away from your honor and duty? Will you let everyone know how unfit to rule you are?”

 

Part of Hanzo searches for footholds, looks for any – any – any way to fix this, to unsay the scary oath, to save everything, leave the mossy dwelling and never step into its shadows again, but the other part, the part that somehow always remembers what happens next, releases his white-knuckled grip, plunging him into the black waves that throw themselves at the cliff.

 

If Hanzo is lucky, this is where he wakes up. Most of the time, the dream continues.

 

Hanzo kneels on the cliff, hunched over and bristling, and lets out a piercing wail as he calls for his brother from across the wide sea. The knife is cold in his claws, hidden in the white fur.

 

The Bird arrives in a flurry of black feathers, dropping stone-like on the dark rocks, disheveled and wild, his grin like a slash of lighting in the stormy sky. He doesn’t know what awaits him; he never does.

 

Hanzo gets up from his knees, unsheathes the knife, and lunges forward.

 

They fight, the rough surface of their battlefield becomes slippery as blood spills and mixes in its crevices. The Bird parries Hanzo’s attacks with his own knife, but Hanzo is relentless, driven by the shadows that took hold in his mind, that watch his every step and sneer at every intentional miss – until he doesn’t miss.

 

The Bird falls on the ground in a heap of feathers, a wing slashed off, a leg mangled, tear streaks cutting wounds on his contorted face.

 

He begs Hanzo to spare him.

 

Hanzo kills him.

 

He baits an eye and catches the fish with the human face, its scales glimmering like an electric charge on a set of runes.

 

He eats the fish; the air swells with the scent of a nearing storm, of a looming power far more terrible than the fish could ever offer, someone’s eyes seeking him out through the darkening clouds.

 

He wakes up.

 

***

 

The Boshida family rears and bucks under Hanzo’s hold, still outraged and grieving months after the assassination. The sheer fury of the desolate matriarch makes Hanzo take a mental step back as he observes the damage. Sending Hoshimoto has been an overkill, after all, – and isn’t that an ironic play of words? – but...

 

He couldn’t know. How would he?

 

Hanzo squeezes down on the inside of his left cheek, careful not to give anything away by a more obvious movement. People are silent around the long table, waiting for his command.

 

“Cut off their medication shipments,” he finally says.

 

High-end painkillers, vicious in their effectiveness and highly addictive. The matriarch is known to indulge in the products of her own business. Hanzo pretended not to notice when he first learned about it, but kept the knowledge for a moment like this.

 

Confusion flits across the faces of the seated people. Hanzo bites down harder; this is not what they expected.

 

“With all respect, I would suggest that we approach them with compromise rather than with further restrictions,” one of the generals says carefully.

 

People turn their heads, approval easy for Hanzo to read. But to agree now is to cede power by showing doubt. Under their incessant scrutiny, he cannot – and will not – be allowed a moment’s weakness.

 

“You heard what I said,” he pins the man with a glare.

 

People seem to shrink in their seats as silence blankets the room for a moment.

 

“Yes, _oyabun,_ ” the general says, meeting his eyes with a stare that almost matches Hanzo’s.

 

The complying in his tone is barely, just barely outweighing the blunt acknowledgement that yes, he heard Hanzo speak. Hanzo takes that.

 

The tension doesn’t dissipate until people vacate the room, and then, with a jolt, transforms into dread, descending into his stomach like lead.

 

Hanzo contemplates getting a cup of _sencha_ for the temporary relief it provides, but cuts the thought down as it crops up. Instead of wasting time on meaningless distractions, he gets down to planning. Indulging personal impulses will bring him nowhere.

 

***

 

Hanzo frowns, tapping his foot against the tatami as he stares into a wall-length mirror of the empty dojo. The stiff training clothes fall away effortlessly in his mind’s eye as he scrutinizes the angles of his body. Have they grown rounder? Have they lost shape?

 

Hanzo feels bloated not unlike a drowned corpse, no matter how much he trains or how little eats. Every movement is strained and uncomfortable. Hanzo never had time nor saw any reason to form an opinion or preference on people’s body shapes, but for his own to disobey so suddenly – it feels like betrayal. A kind of control that should be simple, wrenched away from him.

 

He needs to work harder. The head of the clan will not be seen slacking off.

 

***

 

“You could go out with me, you know. Meet my gang, get that stick out of your ass for one night.”

 

Hanzo scowls as he is pulled out of his thoughts without permission or warning. “What?”

 

“Eloquent.” Genji looks up at him from his upside-down position on the couch. How the idiot manages to paint his nails at the same time is a mystery Hanzo doesn’t want to dwell on. “I said, I’m inviting you to actually go outside. To chill and stuff. Like normal people do?”

 

“I am not interested in your vulgar activities,” Hanzo scoffs and taps at his tablet to bring it back to life.

 

Ah, yes, now he remembers how he and Genji ended up in the same room, a rare occasion in itself. By Genji draping himself over the couch and stinking the place up with nail polish. Funny how Hanzo hasn’t immediately noticed that. Then again, he was busy.

 

“You know you don’t gotta be on defensive all the time, right?” Genji drawls. “No one’s watching.”

 

_(Wrong.)_

 

With a start, Hanzo places his brother’s bored tone of voice. Genji isn’t actually considering that Hanzo will accept the invitation.

 

It – unexpectedly – hurts.

 

“Like I said, I am not interested. Nor do I have any desire of meeting the losers you call friends.”

 

For a second, he sees himself asking if that makes him a loser, too. And he sees Genji looking away in silence. A brother, maybe. But not a friend.

 

He can’t shake off the feeling of something blackening the horizon. A presence that makes him stay put and wait, even somehow knowing that it will find him anywhere.

 

Genji sighs, relaxing into a boneless pile of designer clothes and dyed hair as he examines his nails. His disinterested face spells defeat, but somehow he’s not the one who’s lost. Uncharacteristically, that’s the only reaction Hanzo gets, verbal or otherwise.

 

“If you are so keen on spending time with me, work with me for once,” Hanzo throws. Resolutely _does not_ mutter, certainly not because trying to get Genji to do what he’s supposed to do has only resulted in shouting matches and weeks of sullen silence so far.

 

Genji rights himself so suddenly that Hanzo fears whiplash before he leans in, eyes burning with intensity.

 

“It’s the same shit song over and over with you!” He gestures around the room, “Things will not magically get better if I suddenly join you! _I am not the problem here._ ”

 

 _‘You are,’_ the thought hits and runs before Hanzo can even fully comprehend it, but the punched feeling remains.

 

“This is not what Father wanted,” he says.

 

Genji snorts. “Yeah right, because of course he wanted you running yourself into the ground _and_ dragging me down with you.”

 

 _‘I can’t do this alone,’_ Hanzo thinks abruptly. A shock of ice cold water, and that thought is gone as well.

 

Genji must have misinterpreted his silence, because he leans further in, waiting until Hanzo meets his eyes.

 

“Listen, Hanzo. I’ve killed for you. I’ll keep killing for you if I need to, and I’ll die for you, but it was not, and will never be for the clan. Only for my brother.” 

 

It takes Hanzo all he has to not squeeze his eyes shut, turn away and pretend Genji never said that.

 

“Shit, if that’s what it takes, I’ll run away. Just – toss you over my shoulder and carry you from here if I gotta.”

 

“That’s not how it works.” Hanzo’s throat feels tight, words pushing each other out in their struggle.

 

“It is, if you listen to me for once!” Genji throws up his hands, then seems to remember something and brings them back down to inspect the nails. _“Fuck!”_ he swears with a toss of his head.

 

Something in it strums the wrong kind of note in Hanzo.

 

“The clan and I are one now, have been for years,” he says. “If you won’t take your place, you won’t help me either. Not in the way it matters. Join me or leave me alone.”

 

_‘Please, brother.’_

 

They will never let Genji go.

 

A corner of Genji’s mouth turns down. “Oh no, will you look at the time,” he drones, the bright expressiveness burned and buried in an instant. “I totally gotta go before my _’loser friends’_ start looking for me and worrying for my wellbeing. It’s a thing friends do, you know?”

 

Hanzo grits his teeth and says nothing. His forgotten tablet has gone to sleep again. He taps the screen and stares at it until he hears Genji leave.

 

From the screen, a young woman looks at him with the strained glued-on smile people usually wear after having to endure hours of getting _just the perfect_ shot that they know might decide their life. Great-aunt Kanata has provided him with a list of suitable candidates for the position of his wife, and Hanzo allows himself the smallest slouch as he scrolls listlessly through the dossiers. The thought of having to try and break in another person fills him with dread, but being the clan leader means building a family and conceiving an heir.

 

Mother and Father did love each other, Hanzo muses. He barely remembers their relationship, overshadowed by Father’s massive disinterest in him, bordering on hostility, but he does know that Father went against the elders’ wishes and married for love.

 

Hanzo snorts quietly. Even if there _were_ anyone he would want to marry – what a laughable thought – he already has a defective brother to make up for. Going against the clan on marriage on top of that – he can’t afford it even if there was a real reason apart from him simply _not wanting_ to marry.

 

Choose a woman with the most beneficial connections, bring her into his house, break and mold her into a reliable partner – such a controversy – to stay by his side for years to come – this is just another duty.

 

With a small groan, Hanzo flicks the file away and powers the tablet down. Maybe he can put it off until he’s at least thirty.

 

***

 

With time, it gets easier. The control feels steady in Hanzo’s hands, reins strong and familiar as years go by.

 

With time, it gets harder. Weeks melt together, months move with the amorphous inescapability of a landslide, pulling Hanzo with them.

 

Sleep is an elusive thing, and the dreams he does get to see are filled with whortleberries, soil hanging off the roots of upturned pines, and slimy fish scales crunching between Hanzo’s teeth. His temples ache with cold when he wakes up.

 

Genji won’t look at him, disappearing for days and returning in a tumble of bright colors and brighter smells. Hanzo realizes he expects reprimands from the elders only when none come. They must have given up on Genji too, and Hanzo would feel relief if – if he could feel anything at all.

 

The only thing he is aware of is the landslide passage of time.

 

The elders are attentive as always, and sometimes Hanzo thinks he notices something else in their gazes – if he didn’t know better, he’d think they watch him like hunters watch a set trap, waiting for it to snap, – but whatever it is, it’s always gone the moment he meets their eyes.

 

Sometimes Hanzo feels their stares even as he makes his walk up the black cliff, tiny stones dislodged by his claws and tumbling into the thick bushes lining the path. The focus of their attention buzzes in his temples.

 

***

 

Hanzo dreams of being a muskrat.

 

This time, there is a sword in his hand, and as he throws himself at the Bird, the power of their collision sends the Bird staggering backwards, ducking to avoid the sharp blade aimed for his neck.

 

“Brother!” he calls out even as he unsheathes his own sword, clanging it against Hanzo’s. “What are you doing?!”

 

Hanzo has long since stopped replying to his brother’s pleas, the dream unfolding almost word for word for a thousandth, a millionth time. He’s done it so many times, he can do it again. Hanzo grits his teeth and slashes wildly, but the Bird jumps out of the way, reading his obvious attack.

 

Another lunge, and the Bird cries out, grabbing his right shoulder, the grip on his sword spasming for a moment. Something in Hanzo stumbles over the sound, the pain so evident in Genji’s breaking voice, but the shadows’ whispers grow louder, drowning him in static. Hanzo attacks again.

 

They trade one blow after another. Both are bleeding freely now; Hanzo’s blood soaks into his fur, clumping the white strands, while the Bird’s flicks right off his black feathers.

 

Untouchable. Unmarrable. Above everything that is Hanzo’s duty.

 

Hanzo snarls in sudden rage, his vision whiting out for a long, thundering moment.

 

Bird falls heavily on his knees with a desperate cry, his sword arm cut off at the shoulder, blood trickling grotesquely between his fingers that clutch at the wound. Hanzo gnashes his teeth, waiting for Genji to get up, to _fight_ for once in his pathetic life. The wailing birdcalls fill his ears with tinnitus, but rage whitens them out too.

 

“Get up!!!” he screams. The Bird doesn’t make any attempt to follow the order. “Fight!” Hanzo stabs him in the remaining forearm, slicing effortlessly through thick leather armor, brother’s cry choking off in shock.

 

“If only you’d ever _listen_ to me!” Hanzo circles the Bird and kicks him between the shoulder blades, Genji falling on his front with a flail. “If only you’d ever _care!_ ”

 

Genji struggles to his knees and away from Hanzo, trailing blood and broken feathers. He doesn’t go far.

 

“Useless! Worthless!” Hanzo cries as he strides after him. “I _needed_ you!” His roar is swallowed by the dark sky.

 

In a horrible, twisted way, it feels so good to finally let out all the despair that’s clawing him open on the inside.

 

“This is not you, Hanzo,” Genji croaks suddenly, pushing himself over to face him. Disbelieving. Hopeful.

 

The sudden bitterness feels like a long-left knife twisting in his chest.

 

_“This is all me.”_

 

Hanzo advances, lifting his blade.

 

Brother looks up at him, eyes wide with panic and primal, choking terror, and releases his dragons, two green forms rising above their host and aiming their curved beaks at Hanzo. He reacts without missing a step, throwing his own beasts forward like rolling thunder, their fish mouths lined with rows of sharp teeth.

 

Bigger and stronger, they force their way through the green birds and engulf his brother. Genji screams in the blinding light of the dragon’s fierce battle, his dark shape convulsing as the blue spirits tear at his flesh.

 

Maybe this way he will know Hanzo’s hurt.

 

When it is over, Hanzo steps closer to the Bird’s crumpled form. Feathers have fallen away like shredded clothing, and Genji’s skin is a map of wounds, an upturned minefield, blood welling with each shaky aborted breath.

 

He is breathing.

 

Hanzo stops dead in his tracks. Has he ever released his dragons before? Has Genji ever still been alive after his final attack?

 

Has the Bird ever _been_ Genji?

 

Of course – the Bird King – his brother – but...

 

_…Genji._

 

Has he just…

 

“No,” Hanzo gasps, dropping to his knees. Blood seeps into his hakama – has he worn hakama before? “No no no, it’s just a dream, this is just another dream, I will catch the fish and wake up, I will—”

 

The air grows hot around Hanzo, tricks him into seeing double, black feathers over torn skin, Bird King over Genji…

 

He slumps back, watching numbly as Genji shakes and spasms on the cobblestones under the dim city lights. The buzzing in his temples heightens to a piercing trill.

 

“This is just a dream.”

 

“Ha-anzo…”

 

Genji’s bloodshot eyes turn to him, glinting with tears against the dark bruising filling his skin. He chokes on something, throat working as he attempts to force a word out, but breath leaves him with a wet shudder.

 

He doesn’t breathe in again.

 

Hanzo’s chipped sword clatters to the ground. The fish swirls and splashes, grinning at him with a mouth that is too wide and full-lipped on the round, flat face.

 

“So was that worth it, Muskrat King?” It asks in a sing-song voice. “Tell me, was that worth it?”

 

“This is just a dream,” Hanzo mutters, his unfocused gaze tracing shapes around the still form, never dipping closer.

 

“It is,” the fish agrees amiably and swishes its long tail, the huge smile splitting its face in half. “Sleep, Muskrat.”

 

“No,” he wheezes. “No, I have to wake up – I have to find Genji.”

 

“Sleep, Hanzo.”

 

“What have I done?!”

 

The fish floats until it can look Hanzo directly in the eye. It seems to have grown, silvery scales hiding the body from view. “Nothing you did not have to, dragonling.”

 

Hanzo buries fingers in his matted hair, tugs at the locks.

 

“He is better off dead,” the fish whispers sweetly, as if sharing a treasured secret with him. “What clan was ever ruled by two heads?”

 

Hanzo lets out a sob – they were going to, Genji was to be by his side... He kept saying no, but Hanzo would make him see that it were for the best, that this was the only way to…

 

The fish licks its plump lips with a pointy pink tongue, wiggling its thick body aside.

 

“Now feed me his eyes.”

 

“No!” Hanzo staggers up and back, slipping on the cobblestones.

 

“My power is yours, if only you dare to take it.” The fish swirls in excitement. “You made your decision. You upheld your oath, protected what’s yours, now consume your victory.”

 

The fish’s words tug at something in Hanzo’s memory, pulling it to the surface with a rusty hook.

 

_“Protect your brother, Hanzo.”_

 

“I have to wake up.”

 

_What has he done?!_

_Genji…_

Hanzo stumbles away from the mangled body, tripping over his feet as he cuts through the night city, uncaring of who might see him. The fish follows, weaves its way around him, long fins shimmering and making his skin crawl from their loving touch.

 

The cliffs of Hanamura spread before him, the darkness below pierced with a constellation of lights.

 

Hanzo sees none of it as he nears the edge of the cliff, the gashes on his brother’s face drowning his vision in crimson.

 

He doesn’t think, doesn’t stop, doesn’t even slow down as he walks off the cliff.

 

***

 

His knees are on fire. That’s all Hanzo can feel through the seaweed filling his head.

 

There are voices, disjointed and coming from far away.

 

“...We need to pull him off them.”

 

“Are you in your right mind? He will not sur–”

 

The sensation of fins brushing his skin, as soft as rice paper, swallows the rest.

 

***

 

The buzz in his temples is gone. Something he hasn’t noticed before.

 

***

 

His brain feels like musty old cotton, the strands reaching down to his throat and squeaking on his teeth.

 

His knees are on fire. He must have shattered them when–

 

_...when..._

 

It feels important. Hanzo frowns.

 

“...We have to call...”

 

“Sajime is on it!”

 

“Don’t you see, Sajime is not _enough!”_

 

Hurting and confused as he is, the fragmented sentences are enough for Hanzo to decipher the meaning.

 

They are afraid for him. Nervous that the clan will be left leaderless, a dragon with no head.

 

The effort to move is comparable to trying to move a mountain, but he manages to shift his hand.

 

The pain in it is muted, easily outweighed by the inferno engulfing his knees, but it’s the subtle, out-of-place sound that calls his attention.

 

The clinking of metal, the kind links of a chain make when hanging loosely.

 

Handcuffs.

 

They are afraid not for him, but _of_ him.

 

What has he done?

 

The dream... Where is Genji?

 

“Genj-ji,” he croaks, dry tongue sticking painfully to the roof of his mouth.

 

The conversation stops, severed by the rusty blade of Hanzo’s voice.

 

“Where is...” he tries again, but the effort is too much. Hanzo slips away without even managing to open his eyes.

 

***

 

His knees are on fire. So is his entire body.

 

The faces leaning over him are blank, foreign. They watch him cut his body into the unyielding restraints, listen to him scream himself hoarse as the fire sets every nerve ablaze.

 

Hanzo tries to turn away from the faces, scared tears smearing his cheeks and blurring his vision.

 

The only person he wants to see here is not among them, but no matter how desperately he calls, Genji doesn’t come.

 

***

 

They won’t tell him what happened to Genji.

 

So it must be true.

 

He really...

 

Hanzo struggles to lift his hand as far as it can go. He half-expects to see claws.

 

There are none, but something grips and twists his insides, pulling his body down, down, down into the darkness.

 

What has he done.

 

What has he _done._

 

***

 

“...His bloodwork looks like an entire busted _drug joint,_ what the _fuck_ did you have him on?”

 

The unfamiliarity of the voice pulls Hanzo from his reverie. Shadows move over his eyelids, and he opens his bleary eyes to watch.

 

A woman is arguing about something with people Hanzo recognizes as medical staff of the castle, Dr Tokogawa in the first line of his white-clad army.

 

Tokogawa answers something in a hushed tone, and the woman leans back in shock.

 

“Was he even aware? God, the side effects alone...”

 

Are they talking about him? Slow and stiff, Hanzo misses whatever it is Tokogawa says.

 

“Don’t speak like that to me, you don’t scare me!” the woman snarls. Hanzo would appreciate the nerve if his every cell weren’t consumed by the liquid fire in his veins. “If you’ll excuse me, I will now treat my patient.”

 

She turns to him, head blocking the ceiling lamp and making Hanzo squint. He can’t make out her features. He wonders what she sees.

 

“I will get you out of this drug hell, mark my word,” the woman says, her face blacked out in the stark shadows.

 

Hanzo feels a tear slip down his temple and into the hair.

 

Alive for some bizarre, inconceivable reason. Not the one who should have survived.

 

And completely, utterly alone.

 

_‘Why did you not let me die.’_

 


End file.
